it's all in the being here
by GingerGleek
Summary: Puckleberry oneshot; pretty Rachel-centric. Rated T. / You never once thought that at this point in your life, this is where you'd be. And definitely not with him.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, as much as that sucks ..._

_Rated T._

_A/N: This was originally a drabble for my series 'Drabbles A La Glee 2' (shameless plug), but it kind of expanded, as you can see._

_I was pondering the lyric 'baby the living is all in the getting there' from _Terri Clark_'s song 'Getting There', and the idea for this came to me; and I just couldn't resist the Puckleberry opportunity ;). I love Cherry and Berryford, I'll admit, and even some well-written Pucktana ... but Puckleberry will always be my OTP. (Even if the writer's can't see that and insist of Finn and Rachel being together.)_

_[Written in second person; 'you' is Rachel.]_

_I hope you enjoy!_

_-0-0-_

You're not exactly sure how you got here.

Well, you're perfectly aware of the journey to this specific physical location, and you're quite familiar with the vehicle and who drove it. It's not _here_-here that you don't know how you got to.

What you don't know is how your life path altered so unequivocally and brought you to be here, with him of all people, the night after high school graduation.

It's been a hell of ride, no doubt. You're just amazed that you were on it.

If someone had told you at the end of your sophomore year that you'd be here right now, lying in the bed of a truck looking up at the stars, harboring not a care in the world, with Noah Puckerman … you'd have recommended him or her for help of the psychological kind by a trained professional. You'd have thought it completely absurd.

You never once thought that at this point in your life, this is where you'd be. And definitely not with him

And you certainly never thought that you'd be carefree. You should be going completely anal at the moment, flitting about and buzzing around with excitement at the prospect of going to Julliard in the fall; marking off items on a essay-long checklist, checking and double checking every single thing as you pack, (going dizzy at the thought of not being completely prepared). You've never been carefree. Your entire life, you've been building up for the future; planning and re-planning and perfecting and working towards what was to come. And once you achieved that, you barely gave yourself time to enjoy it before planning (and re-planning and working towards) what was to come _next_. You've never had _time_ to be carefree. Not with your dads constantly looking over your shoulder, encouraging and praising, but also criticizing and _expecting_. (Always expecting things thing of you … expecting more and expecting better; _more_ accomplishments, _more_ hard work out of you, _better_ performances, _better_ grades …)

Now, though … now, you don't have a care in the world.

You're perfectly content here, simply laying in Noah's arms, gazing up towards the night sky and contemplating what _might_ be to come, all the things that _could_ happen to you (the two of you together) in the future. (You like it like it a lot more than you would have expected. Your whole life has been about what _will_ happen, and ensuring what it does. But now you enjoy just entertaining all the possibilities, and wondering _what if_.)

He's managed to loosen you up quite a bit, and in so many ways. It's hard to believe that two short years ago you barely spoke to each other, were hardly on a first name basis (though perhaps that's a bad metaphor – in your situation – for being close, because you've always called him Noah, and he often still calls you 'Berry'), because now you're nearly inseparable; not to mention gearing up for a life together in New York.

Even you yourself are amazed at how okay you are with the fact that you're not going to Julliard. That was supposed to be the first step in your all of your plans for stardom, after all. But the rejection letter came in the mail a few months ago, and after the initial shock and moping about you picked yourself up quite nicely, if you do say so yourself.

And it hasn't deterred you from your dreams, not in the slightest. So many people have made it big in the industry without the higher artistic training that Julliard has to offer, and you choose to believe that even four years of it really wouldn't give you an advantage over anyone else trying to be discovered. (You actually think that skipping it and putting yourself out there right off the bat will give you more of an edge.)

You're going to be a star. You're going to be on Broadway.

(Just like someone once told you, it's inevitable.)

You're going to New York in the fall, you're going to get a job and work your butt of to pay rent, and someone's going to find you and see how brightly you shine. You're sure of it. You're going … just not off to Julliard like you always thought you would be.

And you're going with him; the two of you, together.

It's going to amazing, you're sure of it. To be able to walk through Times Square and know that you're home; that it's your city now, too. To glance at the Statue of Liberty like it isn't anything new; just part of the everyday scenery. To look at the packed streets and observe the tourists as the gaze at the city in awe; to smirk at them humorously, knowing that at one time you were the same as them.

But it's going to be hard, too, and you know it.

There are the miracle stories that the celebrities just _love_ telling; the odd, out-of-the-ordinary (yet now _completely _ordinary) ways that they were 'found'. Some people give it a shot, expecting to be found the same way. But for every big-break, there are hundreds people who tried and failed, time and time again. For every celebrity there are hundreds of people that had their idealistic dreams shot down.

You're not near delusional enough to think that you're going to walk into your first audition and magically score a lead role on Broadway.

It's going to be so, _so_ hard. It'll take a while, and you'll get frustrated, and some months you'll be struggling to make ends meet. There are auditions that you will tank, director's that will see you as completely wrong for the part, roles that you won't even be able to land an audition for, and plays that you'll work on that will go downhill before they even really start.

But you're going to make it. There'll be tears along the way, and months with not near enough pay to keep on top of the bills; but one day, however far from now that it is, you'll stand up on a stage as the curtain draws up for the first time, and you'll blow ever single person in the audience away from centre stage.

You're going to make it because you _want_ it more than anybody else ever has (have always wanted it), and you've been working your whole life to get it.

That day isn't in the foreseeable future, though.

The 'foreseeable future', at this point, though, ends at the same time the summer does; if it's even that long.

You're not even eighteen for another month, and you're just barely out of high school; as mature for your age as you are, and as future-obsessed as you once were … at this point you're just enjoying life, trying to figure out the next step. And that next step is packing your bags in a month and loading up Noah's truck for the drive to NYC, and then … whatever the step is after that.

You're just living in the moment as best you can.

And even though you're still not exactly sure how you got here … you love that this is where you are. You love that you don't know exact what's going to happen tomorrow, or the day after, or a year from now.

You love _him_, period; and he loves you.

And that's all that matters for now. (Not Julliard, not what your fathers want; and definitely not having a five-point – or eight-point or twenty-point – plan.)

All that matters is you, and him, and the rest of your lives.

It'll all fall into place, somehow; you're sure of it … And even if it doesn't, you'll be alright as long as your life is entwined with his, and you're doing what you love.

At least, you sure hope so …

You are where you are, regardless, right? There's no changing that.

And you sure as hell don't want to.

_-0-0-_

_Anyone interested in a sequel?_

_Please review!_


End file.
